


Roses Look So Pretty When They Bleed

by Denizen_of_Dreamland



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Blood Loss, Choking, Coughing, Drama, Exhaustion, F/M, Fear of Death, Flowers, Hanahaki Disease, Hemoptysis, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nausea, Pre-Canon, Sickfic, Unrequited Love, Vomiting, Whump, Whumptober 2020, internal bleeding, loss of appetite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26935273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Denizen_of_Dreamland/pseuds/Denizen_of_Dreamland
Summary: Hanahaki Disease. An illness caused by unrequited love that causes flowers and thorns to grow inside the victim’s lungs. Symptoms include exhaustion, pain in the chest area, wet coughing, vomiting of flower petals, internal bleeding, and, ultimately, death by shock or asphyxiation.It can be cured if the target of the affection returns the feelings. It can also be treated through surgery, but the procedure is expensive and comes at an even higher cost: removing the flowers removes the patient’s ability to love as well.The moment he stepped out of the hospital room, Maruki knew it was all over for him.
Relationships: Maruki Takuto/Rumi, Maruki Takuto/Shibusawa
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Roses Look So Pretty When They Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> **No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED  
>  Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood**
> 
> **No 13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT**  
>  Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask
> 
> I hope this isn't too far removed from the prompts... I got a little too passionate when describing the disease and ended up focusing on other symptoms. The second chapter is supposed to handle the prompts more directly, so I hope you enjoy this for now.
> 
> The tags say Hurt/Comfort, but, really, expect little to no comfort. Don't expect a happy ending. In fact, don't expect anything. You've been warned.

It started with a simple feeling of discomfort in his chest. It was faint enough to go unnoticed, but Maruki caught onto it straight away. 

He chose to ignore it.

Only days later, a sharp, prickly feeling bloomed on the right side of his abdomen, near the bottom of his lung. The pain was soft, but it was so concentrated that he could pinpoint exactly where it was curled up like a ball. He could’ve reached out and grabbed it between two fingers if only his flesh wasn’t in the way.

Over the next few weeks, the prickly feeling expanded, spreading across his chest, until it reached his heart and, eventually, his neck. The pain, which was starting to grow in intensity, still focused on the point where it had begun, but it slowly seeped into the rest of his body, draining him of his strength and forcing him to lay down often and take frequent breaks while working.

It was accompanied by fever, which was followed by shortness of breath. Something as natural as breathing soon became a struggle, so much so that he could often be found breathing through his mouth, resting even though he hadn’t done anything physically demanding, or jolting awake in the middle of the night, gasping for air.

If he moved too abruptly, sitting up in his futon too quickly or plopping down on the couch too brusquely, he would get dizzy, his sight would get blurry, and he would suck in a strained breath, hoping he wasn’t about to pass out. Sometimes, the sensation would be so paralyzing that he would stiffen up, sit as still as possible with his hand over his chest, focus on a spot on the wall, and wait in silence for up to an hour, trying to steady his breathing and regain some semblance of safety.

It was a nightmare to get through hot days and cold days alike, because his throat would close up and the little air entering his body would feel either dense or frigid, which would leave him weak and helpless even after activities as simple as walking or taking a shower. Tasks that he had taken for granted before, like cleaning his house or climbing up stairs, suddenly became demanding chores that drained all of his remaining energy for the rest of the day. 

He feared for his life every single day, afraid that he wouldn’t survive for much longer if his lungs kept refusing to work properly.

The nausea came next. It swept him over in one shot, as a poignant sensation that rose up from his stomach and gripped at him from the inside. At times, it was so overpowering that he would gag at the mere sight or smell of food, if he didn’t outright puke the few things he could manage to stuff into his mouth.

He began to shy away from physical food, until he relied only on water, juice, energy drinks, and a handful of insipid snacks that didn’t make him want to regurgitate. Missing out on delicious meals was discouraging, but it didn’t affect him as much as having to drop his pastime of cooking. Being unable to do something he loved, something that had brought him so much stability during rough times, and that made him genuinely happy, was a huge blow to both his mood and his rapidly declining health.

After that, he began coughing. Like many of the other symptoms, it started small, with only a few dry coughs that he could easily brush off if his breathing managed to return to normal quickly enough. But, with time, the coughing became stronger and more frequent, disrupting his work and alerting the people around him to the fact that something was wrong with him, which made them worry, while making him feel like a burden. Sure, he was sick, but he didn’t want to drag other people into his mess, especially when there was nothing they could do about it. So he closed himself off further, avoiding social interaction and going out only when it was strictly necessary, to avoid concerned stares, prying questions, and unwanted advice.

The dry coughs became wet coughs, first with phlegm and then with blood. He existed in a constant state of exhaustion, where all of his energy was being completely wasted in coughing fits he couldn’t control. The only thing he wanted to do was to sleep all day long, but, at the same time, he dreaded going to bed every night, as he was convinced that, if he closed his eyes, he would never get up again.

He had a good reason to be scared; his state was only getting worse with each passing minute. After some of his stronger coughing fits, he would find himself curled up on the floor, wheezing, with his hands damp with blood, as he tried to move but was unable to. His chest hurt, it hurt so much that he could never fully get his mind off it, but, as soon as the pain started to fade away, another fit would bring it back in full force.

And then, he coughed up his first petal.

When he spotted it, he was kneeling on the floor, clutching his stomach and breathing shakily, trying to endure the sharp pain lodged in between his lungs. He stared at the petal as it floated in a small puddle of blood almost peacefully, like a pearl white canoe cruising across a bright red sea.

(He winced at the comparison. Rumi had always liked the sea)

Maruki wasn’t surprised. He had a genetic predisposition for Hanahaki, so he’d already fallen victim to it once, back when he was a teenager. It was a terrifying experience, with him being only a high schooler and all, but it ended happily when he found out that Rumi loved him back.

Now, Rumi wasn’t there to support him anymore. This time, there was no chance of recovery.

Thus, Maruki welcomed the pain, because he expected it. He endured it, no matter how hard it got, because he deserved it, for failing to protect his fiancée and her family when they needed him the most. And, most importantly, he embraced it, because it proved how real his love for Rumi was and would always be.

As a reminder of the suffering that she and her family had gone through, he kept a white handkerchief in his pocket at all times, which he used to wipe the blood he coughed up. No matter how much he washed it, the stains wouldn’t fully come off, so the cloth quickly turned an ashen pink. But he didn’t let that bother him, and he still carried the same handkerchief around, the marks of pain piling up in the cloth.

As for the flowers -- beautiful roses, as white as the handkerchief, covered in splotches of bright red -- he arranged them around a framed picture of him and Rumi that he kept on his desk. When he had enough for a bouquet, he placed it in a vase in his bedroom, while he kept piling the rest of them up around the picture.

Maruki sighed, as he stared at them longingly. Rumi adored flowers, especially roses, and she would’ve loved to receive a bouquet like that. If only it wasn’t coated with phlegm, spit, and blood…

As impaired as he was, he held on for dear life, determined not to give in, doing his best to work to earn a living, but, most importantly, to continue progressing in his research. He fought against the disease tirelessly for as long as possible, squeezing every last bit of his energy to make it to the next day, until he just couldn’t keep fighting anymore.

One afternoon, he was returning to his desk, with a cup of coffee in hand, when a sharp pain shot through his heart, paralyzing him on the spot. His throat closed up, his fingers went numb, the cup crashed against the ground, and a choked breath left him, as his arms clutched at his chest to try and drown out the pain. He dropped to his knees, his vision flickering white, and he retched violently, his body producing guttural noises that he never thought himself capable of. He hacked out more flowers and blood, which pooled with the coffee he had dropped, drawing elegant red swirls over the dark brown that had spilled onto the floor, as his head spun, leaving him disoriented.

The cutting pain dulled just enough for him to realize that the cup had shattered and a small shard was digging into his hand. He whined pitifully, biting down on his lip to contain the excruciating pain, and pressed his forehead against the floor to try to ground himself. His heart pounded in his ears, muffling all outside sound, and he was seeing double, as he forgot, just for a brief moment, who he was, where he was, and what the hell was going on.

As soon as he could muster all of the motivation he had left, he fixed his elbow on the ground and pushed himself forward. Slowly, he managed to drag his body through the floor, wincing with each breath, as he inched through the puddles of blood and scorching hot coffee. His chest throbbed, his stomach turned like the scrambler ride at an amusement park, and his body was so fragile that he was afraid that, if he moved the wrong way, he would break something inside him irreparably, but he kept pushing onwards.

Through hazy eyes, he glanced up and finally saw his desk. He gripped at the edge with the last of his strength, reached for his phone, and called his emergency contact.

“Shibusawa…?” He rasped, holding the phone as close to his ear as his unresponsive arm would let him. “Please… help…”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna continue working on the second chapter, so tell me if you want to see more of this! You can also [ talk to me on Tumblr](https://denizen-of-dreamland.tumblr.com) if you want :)


End file.
